These Hard Times
by Cricket1106
Summary: What if Dylan McKay had returned to Beverly Hills in season nine a little earlier and under very different circumstances?


**Hi everyone. This is my first Beverly Hills, 90210 story. I am a huge Dylan McKay fan and I just recently watched the episode where he returns in season nine and couldn't help but think what if he had come just a few days sooner and under different circumstances. Bear with me as this is just an idea. If you hate it please let me know and that will be that. I'm just getting back into this whole writing thing. I hope you enjoy this and I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback. The title comes from a song by Matchbox Twenty. **

**These Hard Times**

It hadn't changed much. None of it had. The colors were still the same. The trees were still the brightest shade of green imaginable, contrasting nicely with the blues that came with living in an oceanfront city. Tourists still flooded the sandy beaches, anxious to experience their own little piece of heaven, busily snapping away on their Polaroid's in hopes that every small memory could be engrained in a still frame.

Why people considered Beverly Hills heaven was a mystery to the people who called the place home. The place was too crowded, the air too polluted, and the people too plastic. Living in Beverly Hills brought with it insanely high standards and constant competition to fit in with the likes of the silver spoons and the rich and famous. Being ordinary was no possibility in Beverley Hills, unless of course, you were lucky enough to grow up with the quaint-essential, Cleaver-like nuclear family. But most products of Beverly Hills, California weren't so lucky. Sure living here had its perks: money, beautiful women, and the greatest party scene one could imagine, but when did that become not enough? When did money become an object and family become a necessity? To most people this was the way it was supposed to be, but Beverly Hills was a different world all together and here it was backwards. A blemish-free life in Beverly Hills was next to impossible.

The man currently sitting in the back of the number fifty-eight LA taxi cab was all-too-familiar with these kinds of feelings. Growing up, his life was nothing like most people his age. There was barely an ounce of normalcy. What boy is considered an alcoholic by sixteen, has his own house by seventeen, gains a multi-million dollar trust fund at eighteen, only to see it stolen by people who claimed to care about him by the time he's nineteen? He was sure he could count the number on one hand. He could even add in seeing your father's car blown up before your very eyes. He was certain to be one of a kind. No, it wasn't all the fault of Beverly Hills but people who had this misguided fantasy that living among the stars and starlets merely consisted of lavishing yourself with anything and everything you could get your hands on, no worries in the world, and rolling in your buckets of money, had it all wrong. Yeah, some residents had the money but they lacked the important things in life. Beverly Hills wasn't paradise, but it was home.

The honk of a horn brought him from his reverie. He didn't know how long he had been lost in his own thoughts.

"Sir" The driver cleared his throat loud enough to be heard by the man in the back seat. The driver was an elderly man, appearing to be in his mid to late fifties. His hair was silky, jet black. It was kept short and matched the mustache he kept neatly groomed rather well. "You did say 933, right?"

"Yeah, 933 Hillcrest Drive."

"Well here we are."

He looked around, letting his eyes adjust to his surroundings. He must have zoned out for fifteen minutes because he just now noticed the familiar house that now set right in front of his eyes. Two cars set in the driveway.

"Thanks man. I didn't even realize we were here." He glanced over at the meter and tossed the man a fifty. "Keep the change."

He opened the door, grabbed his bags and gave the driver a nod of appreciation. "Thanks again, Lupe."

Shutting the door behind him, he began the short walk to the front door of the Walsh family house, listening as the taxi drove off behind him. It was an ordinary Southern California fall day. If he had to guess it was about sixty-eight degrees, seventy tops. The sun was shining bright above, not a cloud in the sky. He reached the top of the front porch steps and pushed his finger against the doorbell, waiting nervously for what was to come. It wasn't that he was necessarily afraid of what was behind the door but he hadn't seen these people in three years and that fact alone brought an overwhelming sense of anxiety.

So many things had changed.

He could hear the knob turn on the other side as someone began to open the door and he took one last deep breath. He had expected to see Steve or Janet, maybe even David Silver, not his best friend standing in the other side of the doorway. Hadn't he left?

"Hey, B."

"Dylan, is that you?"

Dylan now sat in the Walsh's living room. Well, that wasn't entirely true. As far as Dylan knew no Walsh had lived in the house since just after Jim and Cindy left for Hong Kong three and a half years before. So, what was it now, Casa Sanders? He knew Steve had been staying at the house for the past few years or so.

"D, Dyl, Earth to Dylan." Brandon said from his seat across from Dylan in what was once his father's chair.

"Oh, sorry Bran." Dylan shifted his glance. "So, how come you're not in DC?"

Brandon shook his head and sighed. "Doesn't matter. I thought you were in London with my sister."

"Was." Dylan replied quickly. "Now I'm not."

"I see that. How come?"

Dylan just shrugged, He wasn't about to tell Brandon everything that occurred in London just weeks before. Brandon didn't really need to know. It wasn't one big thing that led to him flying half way across the world and fleeing to Beverly Hills, it was a plethora of little things. Well, and the one big one that he wasn't ready to face. He still couldn't believe it had actually happened himself. If he couldn't admit it to himself, how could he admit to his best friend?

"I don't know, Bran."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"Man, I just couldn't do London anymore. I couldn't handle all the rain."

Brandon shook his head and scooted forward in his chair. "You mean to tell me you fled half way across globe because you couldn't handle a little rain?"

Dylan sighed and raised his voice abruptly. "Yeah man, something like that."

"No way."

"Look Bran, why are you givin' me the third degree? I just got here." Dylan stood up, looking Brandon straight in the eye.

"Just curious D. Last I talked to Bren, ya'll were happy. She didn't say much else, but she did say that."

Dylan began pacing the living room. Everything was really starting to get to him. He and Brenda had been happy the last time Brandon called them in London. It may have been the happiest they'd ever been, even more so than the early days of their relationship as juniors at West Beverly High. But things can change in an instant, and change they did. Brandon hadn't called in five months, not since giving them the news of his and Kelly's botched wedding, a call neither he nor Brenda had expected. He'd only called a handful of times since Dylan arrived in London following Toni's death. Those were some dark days.

Dylan hadn't really intended on going to London following his wife's death but one thing led to another and that's where he ended up, on the doorstep of the only girl he'd ever loved besides the girl he had called his wife for a mere twenty four hours. Toni's death had really done a number on him and he knew he could count on Brenda to be there for him. He just never imagined she would eventually pick up the broken pieces of his life and mend his heart back together. But she had and he loved her for it. He never dreamed that she would one day forgive him for all that he had done to destroy their relationship back in high school. Hell, he could barely forgive himself. But, she was a strong one and she did forgive him.

_Amidst the shock and surprise of seeing Dylan sitting on the steps of her loft in the pouring rain, she had all but run to him, immediately enveloping him in her embrace. Apparently Brandon had already shared the news about Dylan's marriage to Toni and her death just days before, so Brenda anticipated Dylan to be emotional but in all the years she'd known him, she'd never actually seen him cry. After minutes of silence she managed to lift her head up to look Dylan in the eye. She was taken back when she saw the tears falling from his eyes and her heart broke for him. _

"_Oh, Dylan. I'm so sorry." Brenda repeated over and over again. "Come in, you are staying here with me." _

"D., c'mon talk to me, man." Brandon said. Dylan had zoned out again, obviously thinking about the past. Something had happened and Brandon had to know what it was. He had to get Dylan to talk.

"Gah, I'm sorry, Bran."

"Dyl, just talk to me."

Dylan sighed and sat back down on the couch. His eyes wandered the room. Casa Walsh was practically exactly the same as it had been when he left. The colors were the same, furniture arranged in a very similar way, and the same pictures hung on the wall.

"Have Jim and Cindy been back?"

"Yeah, mom came once right after you left. Well, and the wedding, they were here for that too."

"Yeah, about that, what happened man? I never was your biggest supporter but I was so sure you two would go through with it. " Dylan answered.

"It just, I don't know man, that's a subject that may be better left for another time." Brandon replied with a heavy sigh. "Have you seen Jim and Cindy?"

"Yeah, man." Dylan shrugged. "Your mom came to see Brenda once when she was sick. She stayed about a week. Dylan stopped for a moment as he remembered Cindy's visit several months after he'd arrived on Brenda's door step. She had come down with something and briefly mentioned it to her mother on one of their phone calls and next thing you know Cindy caught the first flight to London. Brenda wasn't one to share the minute or even major details of her life with her family so Cindy had been shocked to see Dylan open the door for her when she arrived. He cracked a small grin as he remembered the look on the woman's face. The recollection was brief, however, because Dylan was interrupted by Brandon's voice.

"What's going on in your head?"

"Nothin' much, man." Dylan replied. "But yeah, we only saw your mom the one time."

Brandon nodded, accepting his answer for the moment. "Look, Dyl, the gang's having lunch together at the Peach Pit. Steve, Janet, David, Donna, Val, even Kelly, they'll all be there. I'm sure Nat would love to see you too."

"Nah, man I gotta go. I have some things I gotta do and I should get going. I have a room at the Bel Age." Dylan stood up hastily. He was suddenly in a rush to get out of the house. "I'll call you or somethin'." Dylan walked to the door, not realizing he'd dropped his wallet in the midst of his pacing minutes earlier.

"Hey man, hold on." Brandon said, bending over to pick up the piece of brown leather. "You dropped your wallet." Brandon picked it up, feeling something lying under it. It was small, silky smooth. "This must have fallen out of it somehow."

Brandon picked up the loose object just as Dylan turned around. "Gimme that, man. I gotta go."

Brandon looked at what he saw to be a 3x5 photo just big enough to fit inside a wallet pocket. His eyes scanned the picture, immediately glancing up at Dylan. "Why do you have your baby picture stuck inside your wallet? I mean you were a cute kid but that's weird."

"Brandon, just give it to me man." Dylan said, reaching his hand out to collect the wallet and the picture that was supposed to be tucked inside. His voice began to get louder and his patience was running thin. "Give me the damn picture."

Brandon returned his attention to the picture in his hand. He still couldn't understand why Dylan carried a picture of himself in his wallet. He couldn't be over a year old in the picture. He turned the picture over and his confusion only multiplied as he read the words scrawled across the back in Dylan's familiar writing.

_Feb, 1997, Holden age 1. _

"Dylan, this isn't you." Brandon spoke softly. His eyes finding Dylan's across the room. "Who's Holden?"

Dylan stayed quiet, his eyes attempting to look anywhere in the room but at his best friend. He didn't want to talk about this, not now or anytime soon, but he couldn't lie to Brandon.

"Look I gotta go, B." He replied, attempting to avoid the question.

Brandon wouldn't give in. "Dylan who's Holden?"

Dylan gave up. "Holden's my son."


End file.
